


The Mightiest May Be Slain by One Arrow

by PericulaLudus



Series: You Were Always My King [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Thorin Oakenshield, Baby Durins, Durin Family Angst, Dwalin & Thorin Oakenshield Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Hurt!Thorin, Injured Thorin, Injury, Thorin whump, Thorin!whump, Whump, arrow wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:44:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life in the Ered Luin is peaceful, but not blessed with riches. Now Thorin has masterminded a trade agreement that might change their fortunes. Not everyone in the vicinity is pleased by these developments and the Dwarves are ambushed on the way back to Thorin's Halls. Thorin is shot. It seems like a minor injury, but soon Dwalin fears for his king's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My King

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Der Mächtigste vermag von einem einzigen Pfeil gefällt zu werden](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4777400) by [TheDwarfess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDwarfess/pseuds/TheDwarfess)



Thorin looked like a king. Not that he had to look in any way special to be Dwalin’s king, but today he really looked like a king for all to see. It wasn’t so much what he wore — there were no ornaments in his hair or on his clothes to denote his rank, nothing but two slightly tarnished hair clasps, and his armour was simple and utilitarian, nothing compared to the splendour of his youth — it was how he carried himself. He looked like a king. Dwalin would tell anyone who’d listen that Thorin was a handsome Dwarf, but that wasn’t the core of the matter either. Thorin always looked like a true son of Durin, tall and raven-haired, with finely chiselled features and a solid body hewn straight from the bedrock of Erebor. But today Thorin looked happy. He looked like he was content and that truly did not happen often. There was even a small smile upon his lips. That smile and the ease with which he carried on a conversation with Balin, that was what made him look particularly kingly today. He was riding from a field of victory, and even more importantly, it had been a victory achieved without spilling a single drop of blood.   
Now Dwalin was no expert in matters of trade and diplomacy, but even he knew that Thorin had every reason to be happy. One of the tribes of Men in the Blue Mountains had granted them the right to mine for iron ore in their lands around the town of Dingwall, strengthening already existing bonds of friendship and cementing them with anticipated commercial benefit for all. The Longbeards were always able to find markets for their wares, but to find plentiful supplies of raw materials that were easy enough to mine and of sufficient quality, that had been an issue for as long as they had been in the Ered Luin. It had also been the reason they left Dunland, or one of the reasons at any rate. This new treaty with the owners of some very promising seams of iron ore would secure the prosperity of Thorin’s Halls for decades to come. From a military standpoint — and to be fair that was mostly Dwalin’s standpoint and the reason he had travelled with Thorin on this occasion — an alliance with the nearby Men would contribute to their safety. There were rogue Men in the foothills, ruffians that had repeatedly attacked groups of traders and were thus endangering both lives and trade. Dwalin had been kept busy over the past few years, accompanying merchants as a guard for their wares. Since the small-scale farming they undertook never yielded enough to feed all the hungry mouths of Thorin’s Halls, safe trade meant survival for their growing town.   
So Thorin was happy and that made Dwalin happy. He was at the rear of their small group. It was a pleasant ride. They had left the newly harvested fields and the meadows full of sheep and cattle behind and were now following a wide forest track. The sun was out and the trees were glimmering in various shades of copper and gold. Thorin lead the way. Well, considering his astonishingly bad sense of direction above ground, Balin at his side was the one leading the way, but that was one of the secrets Dwalin would gladly keep for his king. Four elders had made the way across from Thorin’s Halls to represent them in the negotiations. A small group of miners had also accompanied them, but they had remained in Dingwall to commence work immediately. Only one young journeyman had been sent back with them to acquire more tools and skilled labour. He was a nice enough fellow and did not require much input from Dwalin to carry on a conversation.   
“You’re not much like your brother, you know,” the lad observed.  
Dwalin made a non-committal noise.  
“Just like me and my brother, really, we aren’t much alike either.”   
Dwalin doubted that the sons of Fundin had much in common with this miner’s family, but he kept his peace and the Dwarf at his side started to tell him all about his brother.  
“I’m the older, you see, though you’d probably never guess it since I’m not so much into that entire old and responsible thing, not quite like your brother, you see, never really have been one to be so strict about them rules, but I’ve got a good few years on him, on my brother that is, not on yours, obviously, not quite there yet, although I swear worrying about my brother is going to turn my beard grey before my time!”  
Dwalin chuckled. Nowadays Balin blamed mainly Fíli and Kíli for the white hairs that were starting to streak his beard. Dwalin and Thorin had been accused of making it turn grey when he was still very young.   
“He’s a good lad, really is, a fine young Dwarf if ever there was one. Doing his apprenticeship now, you see, and his master is right proud of him, I tell you. Never seen a talent quite like him, she says. And I’d be surprised if she had considering that he’s pretty much been practicing since he was born! He’s apprenticed to the cook in the miners’ canteen, you see, and he’s always had a way with food. He’s making friends there, I tell you! Wouldn’t surprise me if one of them old geezers proposed to him after tasting one of his apple cobblers one day. Oh now that’s a fine taste! When you can get it, of course. It’s good to have Bombur — that’s my brother, you see, Bofur and Bombur, that’s us, the sons of Baldur — it’s good to have him in the kitchens. We don’t go hungry nowadays. Baldur, our old man, he went to the stone right early and our Ma, she had a hard time of it with the two of us, little rascals that we were. And a growing lad like Bombur, he always needs his food, you see, so it’s good that he’s got it now.”  
Dwalin nodded his head solemnly. They had all known hunger, the ones from the Ered Luin as much as the ones from Erebor. Thanks to Thorin’s tireless work that was now changing. Bofur seemed to follow his line of thought.  
“It’s all been much better since Thorin’s Halls is all up and running,” he said. “Don’t you take me for one of them complainers. Thorin and your brother, they’ve done right by us. Always plenty of work nowadays and we don’t shy away from that now, we sure don’t. I went down the mines soon as they would take me, nothing but a scrap of a dwarfling I was back then, but showed my worth and all and was apprenticed soon as I had the right age, and look at me now, a journeyman in my own right and all!”  
Dwalin gave him a smile. He himself had never been apprenticed, had never had the chance to learn a trade. Not like that. What he knew, he had learned by doing, by sheer survival. He was glad for this young Dwarf, the opportunities he had had and the enthusiasm with which he talked about his craft.   
“So, what do you think of the Dingwall mine?” Dwalin asked.  
Bofur beamed up at him from his little round pony. “Oh a right marvel that is! Much better than what we’ve got in Thorin’s Halls, by the looks of it. No offence meant, mate, but we don’t exactly have the best resources in the Ered Luin.”  
Dwalin chuckled at that. Oh he knew... they had all known that they were not settling in the best part of that mountain range. But when Thorin had lead the Longbeards here, there had been grumbling aplenty already. The local Men had been worried by the sudden influx of Dwarves, rather war-like and well-organised Dwarves at that. Their original plan of rebuilding the ruins of ancient Belegost had soon been abandoned in favour of a modest town and mining operation close to the existing Dwarven settlements. They were warriors down to the last Dwarf, but they had no interest in spurring further enmity and bloodshed. They had all seen enough of that.   
“The bell pits the Men have there, as primitive as they are, they show you the quality of the ore, right enough. Fine, fine vein of iron they’ve got there, or we’ve got there, I should say, seeing as that’s why we’re here. The ironmaster has started the first drift already, following that vein, and we’ll sink the first shaft once I’m back there with the others,” Bofur said. He continued to throw about mining terms for a while, as Dwalin sat back in his saddle, stuffed his pipe and enjoyed the sunshine of the fine autumn day.   
At some point, his young companion realised that he was no longer listening.  
“I must be boring you,” he said. “You are no miner, are you? What’s your trade, mate?”  
“I dabble at the forge,” Dwalin said. “Though I’m no artist, not like Thorin,” he qualified.  
“Ah, I forget! Of course you are a smith, a son of Durin like you. You just seem so normal, if you forgive me saying, it’s easy to forget that you are royalty, Mister Dwalin.”  
Dwalin laughed aloud at that. “You’re alright, laddie. I’m hardly more royal than you are. If you’re looking for the proper son of Durin, he’s riding up front.”  
“Aye, Thorin’s a right Durin, he is. Like some legendary king of old. The ironmaster was saying them poor Men didn’t stand a chance against him and Balin in the negotiations, and I believe it! And he must be a right gem in the forge as well, I’ve seen some of the weapons he makes and my, he’s an artist alright!”  
“You should see him at the anvil.”  
“Oh I have! My cousin works close to the forges, you see and sometimes when I’m working the night shift I’ll come and visit him during the day and I always look out for Thorin in the forges. True master of his craft he is!”  
Dwalin nodded his assent. “Pray this deal works out and you might see him with some better material than iron soon. A sight to behold!”  
He fondly remembered the rare occasion when they had had access to silver or even gold and Thorin had been able to show his considerable skill in some more delicate work. Maybe once the Ered Luin truly prospered, such opportunities would arise again.   
“How come I never see you in the forges?” Bofur asked.  
“Ah well,” Dwalin answered, unwilling to admit that he had no trade as such, that he had spent his formative years fighting, battling hunger and cold, Men and Orcs, madness and despair. A Dwarf was meant to have a trade. “These past few years...” Decades was more like it. “Thorin... thought that I could... serve him better elsewhere.” To be fair, Thorin had had little say in this.  
“Oh,” Bofur said, another broad grin spreading across his features. “That’s why you are away so much. You are a traveling blacksmith! That must be so exciting, all the lands you get to see and the people you see, and I bet there’s scores of different forges and tools and techniques and all!"  
Dwalin shrugged. It was not like he saw many forges from the inside, once or twice maybe when a pony needed a new shoe on the road, but there was no need to share that.  
“Thorin must really trust you,” Bofur continued. “I bet it’s because you are cousin. And he’s really close to Balin, so that must surely help when the king is friends with your brother.”  
Or maybe Thorin trusted him because Dwalin was his best friend. But the young miner would not know that. They had been the closest of friends, they had clung together after the events of the war beneath the Misty Mountains and the trauma of the battle of Azanulbizar, and as far as Dwalin was concerned they remained best friends to this day. But Thorin had had to become the leader of their people as his father’s health deteriorated and Dwalin was little use at politics. The loss of Thráin had cast a dark shadow upon them both, and soon after Dwalin had started to travel as a guard for longer and longer periods, nominally to gather intelligence for Thorin. It must be more than three decades of traveling now, as Fíli was about to turn twenty-one the following spring and he had been born some eighteen years after his grandfather’s disappearance. At any rate, Bofur would have barely started his apprenticeship at that time; too young to remember the great friendship Dwalin had shared with the one he so respectfully called king.  
“Aye, he has always been my king and my brother,” Dwalin said.   
“See, I’m the same with my cousin, he’s more like a brother to me, though he’s no king, of course, but he’s a right good bloke and...”  
Dwalin never learned what else Bofur’s cousin was, for in that very moment Thorin’s mare reared up onto her hind legs.   
“Whoa, easy girl,” Thorin shouted as he fought to stay in the saddle. A long arrow with black fletching whistled through the air and went straight through Thorin’s arm as the spooked pony continued to buck. Dwalin surveyed the scene, his right hand tightening around the reins of his mount while his left darted out to capture those of Bofur’s pony. His Ruby was reliable and placid, used to all sorts of upset on the road, but the young miner wasn’t altogether comfortable in the saddle.   
“You alright, lad?” he asked, not sparing Bofur a glance as he kept his eyes trained on the road ahead where Thorin had lost the fight against gravity, as his injured arm lost its grip on the reins. “Stay behind me.”  
The last words came out as an order. Men were bursting from the trees to the right of the track. Five, ten, fifteen, possibly more, but by then they were milling all around the Dwarves and Dwalin lost count. Not nearly enough to trouble eight Dwarves, but enough to keep him from reaching Thorin without endangering Bofur. With one fluid motion he grasped his twin axes.  
“Stay on your pony,” he told Bofur. Thorin was on his feet; with Balin defending him while Thorin snapped the arrow in half and drew it from the wound. A through shot was always the easiest to deal with, usually healing within the week. The four elders were hacking and slashing at the ruffians with a vigour that belied their advanced years. Like sturdy boots, Dwarves grew tougher with age.   
Dwalin bared his teeth and snarled at the attackers. Damned fools for thinking such a small band could harm them. Twice-damned fools for thinking they could hurt Thorin on his watch. With his right-hand axe he neatly split the skull of a grey-haired swordsman, but the target on his left turned at the last moment and Dwalin’s forceful blow only cut his shoulder. He growled in annoyance and aimed a second hit at the Man’s back, but watched him crumble to the ground a heartbeat later without his interference.   
He nodded his thanks at Bofur. The miner obviously knew how to wield the pickaxe in his hand, though he was wide-eyed and seemed somewhat surprised at his own success. His first kill? Possibly. He was old for it, but then again he plied his trade far from the bloodshed of the battlefield and his generation had been lucky to find themselves without a war to fight.   
After the first onslaught, Dwalin aimed to maim rather than kill. A lame shoulder was effective in stopping an attack for now and they would be safely behind the walls of Thorin’s Halls by the time these lowlifes had time to gather reinforcements. It became a dance. Dwalin dealt blows with the blunt side of his axes in perfectly synchronised movements, directing his trusted steed with his legs. He smiled. If there had been a guild of warriors, Dwalin would have been a grandmaster. He caught Thorin’s eye and gave him a little salute with his axe. Thorin smiled and repeated the gesture with his sword, displaying a bloody rag tied around his forearm. The injury did not seem to hinder his movement, fast and fluid as ever. Thorin stood steady with Balin at his back. Dwalin remained on his pony, shielding young Bofur behind himself. He did not often fight on horseback, usually relying on the sturdiness of his own stance, but the added height was an added advantage against taller opposition. Too bad Thorin had dropped from his mare like a lump of lead. Growing fat and sluggish in his old age. Dwalin would not let him hear the end of it any time soon.   
They were like hammer and anvil, shaping their enemies between them at will. There were currents of Men being driven away by Thorin’s sword only to find themselves faced with Dwalin’s axes, in turn withdrawing and being pushed back. It would have been an enjoyable fight just between the two of them. Dwalin saw fond memories of such skirmishes in Thorin’s smile as they made eye contact again. With another six Dwarves in their company, this encounter became naught but a game. It was good practice for all of them. Even young Bofur had made his first kill, something they would be sure to celebrate around the fire tonight. Dwalin watched his brother, moving very little, but with great efficiency as he too dispensed of foes without killing them. Balin still had it. The others were making more of a fuss, but at least they had been startled out of their comfortable lives for once and were showing that they had not yet lost the strength and stamina that had seen them through exile and warfare.   
At least half a dozen of the Men lay dead when their leader finally seemed to realise that they were nothing but a mouse providing entertainment for a cat that was mightier than they had reckoned. The folly of tall folk to always underestimate those shorter than themselves. If nothing else, these dupes had learned that Dwarves were no children.   
“Retreat!” their leader shouted, a sinewy fellow with a rusty broadsword in his hand and a bow and quiver slung over his shoulders.   
“Ayfulizd serêj,” Thorin ordered and the Dwarves immediately lowered their weapons. Dwalin exchanged a glance with him and they both nodded. That had gone well.   
Dwalin spurred Ruby on to hasten the Men’s departure as they scrambled up the steep bank and scurried into the underbrush, scattering dry leaves everywhere. He was not one to seek revenge for minor slights, but he still did not take kindly to seeing his king injured, no matter how insignificant the wound might be. He turned Ruby around after a few dozen paces when he was sure that none of the Men would return. Sad, deluded lowlifes. Far from derailing the trade agreement, their poorly-planned attack had served no purpose whatsoever, other than ensuring Dwalin might find work as a guard a bit closer to home for a while. If they renewed their efforts, guarding the traders on their way to and from Dingwall would provide a welcome practice for him. Life targets were always the best for honing your fighting skills.  
The others were examining the fallen Men. Dwalin dismounted in front of Thorin and clasped his shoulder.  
“Young Emerald isn’t quite up to scratch yet, is she?” he teased. “Or maybe I should question the ability of the rider, not the horse!”  
Thorin did not respond to the banter, but gritted his teeth. Maybe the arrow wound pained him more than he had let on. Dwalin would insist on examining it and binding it properly before they moved on.  
“They beat a hasty retreat,” he reported. “They turned eastward into the valley of...” He broke off. “Thorin? Thorin!!”  
Thorin fell like a landslide. In the blink of an eye he was spread out onto the ground, unconscious. Dwalin sank to his knees beside him, grasping his shoulders and shaking him.  
“Thorin, Mahal’s beard, Thorin, wake up!”  
No movement. He slapped Thorin’s face. As much as he hated to hurt his friend, this sudden loss of consciousness unnerved him. Thorin lay unmoving among the fallen leaves whose copper shade matched the blood staining the cloth around his forearm. His eyes were wide-open, staring up at Dwalin accusingly, asking for help, for an explanation.   
Dwalin leaned down, shouted straight at his face, but there was no response, not a single twitch of a muscle. Nothing. Dwalin held his cheek just above Thorin’s mouth and waited. His own heart thrummed frantically.   
One heartbeat.  
Two.  
Three.  
Four.  
Five.  
Six.  
Nothing.  
Thorin was not breathing.


	2. My Captain

Thorin was not breathing. He had to be breathing. He had to. Not breathing meant he was dead and Thorin could not be dead. He couldn’t.

Thorin was not breathing. Respiratory failure, Gróin called it, or maybe that was something else. Dwalin could not remember. But it did not matter; it could not be that because Thorin was no failure. He never failed at anything. And he certainly was not failing at breathing just now. He couldn’t.

Thorin had to breathe. He had to. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Thorin, breathe. Thorin was not dead. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be dead. Dwalin wouldn’t allow it.

Thorin had to breathe. Dwalin shook him. Shook him roughly, willing him to put an end to this, to take a breath, nothing else, just a breath, that was all he was asking. Curse you, Thorin, I never ask anything of you. Just breathe. Just one breath. But there was nothing. Thorin lay still, no breath moving his body. He lay as if he was dead even though that could not be true. Dwalin wouldn’t allow it.

He tore away Thorin’s clothes, ripping fabric and snapping cords, to bare his friend’s chest. No movement, nothing, none at all. It could not be. In desperation, he jabbed two fingers against the smooth skin of Thorin’s throat.

A heartbeat.

Praised be Mahal!

A steady heartbeat, if a bit fast.

Dwalin looked up again, but he was only met with his friend’s unseeing stare. Thorin lay as if he were dead, but his heart was hammering away frantically, as if he was in a fight. Or in a panic. And he would be, of course he would be, for he had not been breathing for many long moments. Breathing. Why was Thorin not breathing? Dwalin lifted his friend’s chin, looking into his eyes, hoping that he could see, that he would know that he was receiving help now. Stretching Thorin’s neck, Dwalin was trying to see if there was anything in his mouth that obstructed his airway. Nothing was visible but saliva. Dwalin brushed it away with his thumb, for once cursing the metal on his fingers as the vicious blades came so close to Thorin’s face. With his thumb, he pushed Thorin’s tongue down, but still found nothing. No object lodged in his throat, no blood indicating an injury. Good. But Thorin was still not breathing and he had already wasted so much time.

Time. Time was moving so slowly as he shuffled backwards on his knees, a hand on Thorin’s chin, the other on his forehead. So much time had been lost and yet, it had been mere moments since Thorin collapsed.

Thank Mahal I saw him go down, Dwalin thought and took a deep breath. He pinched Thorin’s nostrils between his thumb and forefinger, and covered Thorin’s wide-open mouth with his own, creating a seal and willing none of the precious air to escape.

Thorin’s chest rose.

Mahal was merciful just this once. Dwalin breathed in quickly through his nose and gave Thorin another breath, trying to keep the air in his lungs for as short a time as possible, fearful that his body might use up the oxygen that Thorin needed so much more urgently than he did.

A third breath, a fourth, a fifth, a sixth and a seventh, then Dwalin paused, lifting his head slightly and watching Thorin closely while he himself was gasping for air. Nothing. Thorin was still not breathing.

Dwalin pressed their lips together again. Seven breaths that made Thorin’s chest rise beautifully, then a pause and once again there was no movement. Dwalin bent to his task once more. Seven breaths. One for each of the tribes.

_Ironfists_

_Longbeards._

Fucking Longbeards with their short-bearded king who still wasn’t breathing.

 _Firebeards._ Show some fire now, Thorin, show me that smouldering ember at your core, the fire that is just waiting to be stoked again.

 _Broadbeams._ Always working, never resting, always putting others first, even when he himself was in greatest need. Just breathe, just this once do something for yourself, Thorin.

 _Ironfists._ Fighting, fighting, always fighting, on the battlefield, in skirmishes like today, or in a council chamber. Fighting for land, fighting for food, fighting for survival, fighting for breath.

 _Stiffbeards._ Beards stiff from cold, so often during the years of exile and warfare. Now they were finally settled somewhere and ice was easily melted in front of roaring fires. Keep fighting, because it’s worth it.

 _Blacklocks._ Black as coal was his heart, some said around the campfires of Dwarves and Men he had shared over the years, but Dwalin knew that those coals were glimmering with a fierce love, the hottest fire that never broke into open flame.

 _Stonefoots._ Always moving, never satisfied, his soul still wandering even when his body had settled. The strongest steel goes through the hottest fire, they say and Thorin was living proof of that.

 _Longbeards._ Living. Come on Thorin, the Longbeards need you. I need you.

Stubborn as always, Thorin did not budge.

_Firebeards._

Thorin was so much like Durin. A father, not to children of his own flesh, but to his people. He was still young, too young for any of this to be happening. He had been too young when he lost his father, first to madness and then to Dwalin’s ineptitude. He had been too young when he had lead them to the Ered Luin where they could at least live in peace and start to rebuild their people in whatever slight prosperity they were given. He had been too young when he had lost his brother and his peace at Azanulbizar. Too young for any of this, but it still happened. He had been on the ground then and Dwalin had picked him up, had pieced the shattered fragments of a Dwarf back together, had sworn his ever-lasting loyalty to him underneath that yew tree, loyalty to the day he died. Loyalty to the day he died, not the day Thorin died, for Thorin would not die while Dwalin still drew breath.

_Longbeards._

He exhaled forcefully into his friend’s mouth, watching his chest rise with satisfaction. There was a hand on Thorin’s bare chest now. Balin was kneeling next to him. When had he appeared? His eyes met his brother’s. His stony face spoke volumes of the severity of the situation.

“His heart still beats,” said Balin. Dwalin had no breath to waste on a reply. Instead he bent to his task again.

_Firebeards._

What could have caused this? Thorin was a grown Dwarf in his prime; he possessed great strength due to his work in the forge and insurmountable skill in battle. None of these Men would have been a match for him in hand-to-hand combat. The fall from the pony? It could knock the wind out of a Dwarf and Men often ended up with a concussion, but even that did not account for Thorin’s lack of breathing. What else? As far as Dwalin had seen, none of the Men even got close enough to hurt Thorin, who always kept them at arm’s length. Except for...

Dwalin glanced at Thorin’s arm, the cloth wrapped around it stained with dark blood, with blood that his heart was evidently still pumping through his body. The bleeding was significant, but not nearly enough to account for such a prolonged swound. Thorin was strong. He did not just faint like a young girl. He did not just stop breathing because of one arrow... the arrow... it had to be...

_Longbeards._

“Find the arrow,” he gasped. He tried to fill his lungs with sufficient air to continue. “Wrap it securely... don’t touch the tip,” he cautioned.

Balin stared at him over Thorin’s still life-less body. “The arrow...” he repeated “Do you think...?”

He left the unfinished question hanging in the air. Dwalin nodded sharply before he pressed his lips upon Thorin’s once more. Over the pounding of his own blood in his ears, he heard Balin issue orders to the others that had started to surround them. They scarpered as he gave Thorin the first breath.

_Firebeards._

Some said that the bow was a coward’s weapon, but Dwalin had seen its efficiency in battle more than once and readily acknowledged its superiority over throwing axes as a ranged weapon. Arrows were shot with greater force and accuracy and left wounds that were notoriously difficult to treat. A through shot was simple enough though. Barring any infections, it healed within a weak. It did not cause a Dwarf to stop breathing. An arrow would have to strike much more vital parts of the body to do that. Unless... And that was where it did become a matter of cowardice. Dwalin had seen it before, though not in these parts of Middle Earth. Tribes from the far south in particular were fond of this technique and many used it for hunting, as even a small injury would do great damage to their prey. Even the tiniest scratch would... Not here though. Not Thorin!

_Longbeards._

Dwalin was breathing rapidly, desperately trying to take in more air in the brief moment of respite as he watched Thorin’s still unmoving chest. Thorin was no prey and these Men were not his hunters. Thorin would live.

_Firebeards._

_Broadbeams._

_Ironfists_

_Stiffbeards._

_Blacklocks._

_Stonefoots._

_Longbeards._

Dwalin lost count of the cycles of seven breaths that he kept administering. Time became an abstract concept, liquid and heavy like quicksilver. All that mattered was air. A fire needed oxygen to burn. Thorin’s fire had just been fanned by that agreement with the Men of Dingwall. Nobody had the right to extinguish it with something as insignificant as an arrow. Some Men feared the growing strength of the Dwarves, but that was no reason to make Thorin so weak.

At some point, he saw Bofur, clutching the halves of the broken arrow, the tip wrapped in what looked like a part of his shirt. The young miner’s eyes were wide as he stared down at Dwalin who was once again gasping for air, trying to soothe the burning of his lungs. He gave him an almost imperceptible nod, though he doubted it looked as reassuring as he intended. Bofur should not have to look like that, he should not have to witness... He was one of the few who had escaped the madness of bloodshed and warfare so far. This was no war. Nothing bad was about to happen. No more death, not on Dwalin’s watch. He would continue to breathe for Thorin for as long as it took. An hour, an age... it did not matter.

It mattered to Balin. There was a gentle hand on his shoulder, holding him back when we attempted to bend down once more.

“Stop Dwalin, you are merely exhausting yourself,” he said.

Dwalin stared at him, dark spots obscuring his vision. Then he looked at Thorin, still completely motionless, sapphire eyes staring into the distance. His eyes would be sore when he awoke, but Dwalin could not... even thinking about closing Thorin’s eyes was...

“It’s over,” Balin said and there were tears dripping into his beard.

Dwalin just stared at him and gulped down more air before he resumed his task of resuscitating Thorin. It was not over. Never.

_Firebeards_

It could not be over because Thorin still had so much to live for and while that alone had never prevented anybody’s death, Thorin was not one to shirk responsibility. Thorin was going to live, not just because he had to, but also because he wanted to. Thorin had so much to live for. See this trade agreement come to fruition, watch Thorin’s Halls flourish; observe the growth of their people who were now safe from warfare, cold and hunger. Be here to guide the resurgence of the Longbeards.

_Longbeards_

King of the Longbeards, king without a mountain, but king nonetheless.

_Firebeards._

He had been thrust into leadership too early, with the pressure of exile and the decay of the minds of his father and grandfather. He would not do the same to Fíli. Little Fíli, a charming lad, courteous and studious by all accounts, but nonetheless just a lad. He would be learning his runes now. Only twenty years of age. Little Fíli. So young, so innocent. Little Fíli. A child that should grow up in peace. A child that should not have to bear the burdens of his elders. Little Fíli, just a child, not one to have his spirit crushed by the weight of leadership. Fíli should be allowed to be a child. Many decades hence he might attend council with his uncle, maybe even fight at his side. At the side of a strong leader, one who was respected far and wide. One who wasn’t dead.

_Longbeards._

Breathe. He had to breathe, because he needed to breathe for Thorin. Thorin needed the oxygen. It had been too long already, way too long. The fire needed oxygen to burn. Thorin’s fire could not die. Not now, not after everything he had been through, not when there was finally hope for a better future. Breathe.

_Firebeards._

Breathe, Thorin. Live. Live for Dís who would be leader in your stead. Live for Dís who cannot bear the loss of another brother. Live for Dís who has lost so many already. Live for Dís who was widowed less than a year ago. Live for Dís who has just started to smile again at the antics of her boys. Balin would bring her the news this time, but who would comfort her? Who would hold her as Thorin had done after Eydís’ death, after Thrór’s death, after Frerin’s death, after Thráin’s death, after Jóli’s death? Breathe, Thorin. Live for your sister, Thorin.

_Longbeards._

He was shaking and his vision was clouded. It did not matter. He sucked in air like one who was drowning. He was shaking. It took him several attempts to find Thorin’s mouth with his own.

 _Firebeards._ Breathe for Dís.

 _Broadbeams._ Breathe for Fíli.

 _Ironfists_. Breathe for our people.

 _Stiffbeards._ Breathe for Dís.

 _Blacklocks._ Breathe for Fíli.

 _Stonefoots._ Breathe for our people.

 _Longbeards._ Breathe for me.

No breath, but a still-beating heart spurring him on. Air. Air. He had to get more air, air for Thorin who needed it so much.

 _Firebeards._ Breathe.

 _Broadbeards._ Breathe.

 _Ironfists_. Breathe.

 _Stiffbeards._ Breathe.

 _Blacklocks._ Breathe.

 _Stonefoots._ Breathe.

 _Longbeards._ Breathe. Always for the Longbeards. For the Longbeards. All of this. All of his life, for the Longbeards. Breathe for the Longbeards.

_Firebeards._

_Broadbeams._

_Ironfists and Stiffbeards._

Breathe. Breathe. Mahal’s beard, Thorin breathe.

_Stiffbeards._

_Blacklocks and Stonefoots._

_Longbeards._ Every breath for the Longbeards. Breath. Every breath. He fell forwards, almost crushing Thorin.

_Firebeards._

_Broadfists._

_Stiffbeards._

_Iron... Iron..._ Pull yourself together, Dwalin.

 _Blacklocks._ Breathe.

 _Stonefeet._ For Thorin.

 _Longbeards. Longbeards. Longbeards._ Breathe for me.

At some point the sequence disappeared and then the counting to seven became impossible.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe...

He just kept breathing, counting forgotten, exhaling sharply into Thorin’s mouth, their lips gone dry. Just breathing because Thorin couldn’t be dead. Because Dwalin could not live without Thorin. Just breathing to keep them both alive.

Balin bodily dragged him away this time with a strength that might have been surprising in one so short.

“Stop it, Dwalin, you are hurting yourself!”

Dwalin lay on his back and gasped for air. His heartbeat was loud in his ears, hammering out a steady rhythm. He had lost. All his strength and all his determination had been for naught once again.

“Breathe, Dwalin.”

He was breathing. He tried to even out his breaths. Breathing. Breathing just for himself, not breathing for Thorin any more. Calm your breathing. He had trained so much it came to him naturally. He fell into an easy rhythm more quickly than he would have liked. He tasted something salty and wasn’t sure if it was sweat or some other liquid. His vision cleared, and he found he was staring up at a colourful canopy of leaves. Shades of copper and gold, beautiful if it had not been for the darkness of the day.

He raised himself up into a sitting position, still breathing harshly. They were all standing there in a semicircle. Wide-eyed shock all around, disbelief, fear, pity in some as they stared at him. Let them stare!

He crawled back to Thorin, to be by the side of his friend, his brother, his captain, and his king even if no other called him that. Thorin lay still as Balin closed his eyes. Dwalin had been unable to do even that small service for him. He acutely felt the loss of Thorin’s glance, felt it in the very rock of his being. He looked at Thorin, looked at that warrior’s body sprawled in the dying leaves. His clothes were simple, but practical, his shirt now torn to reveal his chest. The wound on his arm seemed to have stopped bleeding. Then Dwalin saw for the first time the large wet patch that had spread across Thorin’s groin. The indignity of it hurt him almost physically. For a Dwarf so proud and proper to be brought so low as to lose control of his bladder in front of his men, that hurt. With trembling fingers, he unfastened his furs and spread them over Thorin’s hips. At least they would not stare at that any longer.

“And so dies Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, of the line of Durin.”

Balin’s words echoed as if he was speaking in a vast cave. There was no truth to them because Thorin could not be dead. Dwalin heard Bofur sob. Several of the others were sniffling as well. Dwalin got to his feet, swaying slightly as the blood rushed to his toes. Staggering away from Thorin, he drew his axes.

It could not be.

He sunk one blade deep into the trunk of an old oak tree, withdrew it swiftly, then let the other axe cut into the wood. He worked quickly, using the full strength of his arms to place the blades forcefully and to then drag them from the tree’s grasp. There was no reason for his labour, but there was a rhythm to it.

Thorin — was — not — dead.

Splinters of wood were flying around him.

Thorin — was — not — dead.

Balin was saying something in the distance, but Dwalin paid him no heed.

Thorin — was — not — dead.

All this strength and it had been for naught, he had not even been able to save Thorin.

Thorin — was — not — dead.

And yet he knew that it had been many long minutes since Thorin had last drawn breath on his own. Many, many minutes, or Balin would not have dragged him away. Many, many minutes, or else he would not feel so exhausted.

His left-hand axe sank so deep into the oak tree that he found himself unable to retrieve it. He lowered his arms and leaned his forehead against the rough bark, exhaling shakily.

Thorin was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m unfortunately still not a medical professional and despite having extensive first aid training, I claim no expertise. Considerable research goes into my fics, but they do remain just that — works of fiction. On a completely non-fictional note, folks, thank you for reading... now it’s time to go out and brush up on your CPR skills. That stuff saves lives. Please learn how to do it properly!


	3. My Brother

“At some point you have to admit that he is not coming back...”   
Balin’s voice was soft, his hand on Dwalin’s shoulder gentle, but his words still cut like the ragged edge of an orc’s scimitar. Dwalin knew he was right, Dwalin knew that he had breathed for Thorin for a long time, too long to have any hope of reviving him, and he also knew that poisoned arrows had only one purpose — to kill. Yet his heart remained unable to accept what his brain knew. He kept silent and so did Balin, though he was still uselessly patting his back. The sun was still shining and the birds were making a ruckus in the trees. For them, life moved on. Life without Thorin.   
It was only now that everything was silent that they heard it. It was only a small sound, but it was irrefutably there.   
A soft cough.  
Dwalin wheeled around and before another heartbeat had passed, he was once again kneeling next to Thorin. Thorin was still in exactly the same position; his neck was stretched with the chin tipped back, his lower body covered with Dwalin’s furs. Tears were now streaming from the eyes Balin had closed only moments ago. And Thorin was undeniably coughing, which meant he was breathing, which meant he was alive.   
Lightly, ever so lightly, Dwalin rested his hand upon his friend’s chest. Sure enough, it was rising and falling on its own volition.   
“Mahal be praised,” Balin whispered reverently. They were all surrounding Dwalin and Thorin once more and there were murmurs about a miracle. Bofur was still sobbing  
Thorin’s coughing intensified and mucus trickled out of his open mouth. Dwalin wiped it away with his thumb. His fingers lingered on Thorin’s cheek, his left hand still resting over his heart, feeling the pulse and the breaths that were finally reunited again. Thorin’s eyelids fluttered. His mouth closed very slowly and then he swallowed heavily.   
“Thorin? Can you hear me?”  
Thorin’s eyes opened by a fraction, but immediately fell shut again, a groan escaping him. To Dwalin, that sound was pure bliss.  
“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured. He was gently brushing Thorin’s hair out of his face now, a gesture of familiarity that he would not usually dare to display in front of others. But Thorin had returned from his journey to Mandos’ Halls and that was cause for greater joy than Dwalin had ever known before. Let them watch, let them stare; it did not matter, not today. His frantic pleas had been answered. Thorin was back, for his people, for his sister, for his nephews, and most importantly for himself. Dwalin silently vowed that he would see to it that Thorin’s life was brighter from now on, that he had more to live for than just duty. They had long ago shared their last words with each other, but it was one thing to know your friend’s final message to the world, and another to know that he had been able to leave it content.   
Thorin was breathing deeply now, taking in air, the precious air that had so long eluded him. A tremor passed through his arm. Dwalin gently brushed his hand from Thorin’s shoulder to his fingertips. A finger twitched, but whether it was a spasm or a conscious movement, Dwalin was unable to tell.   
Once again, time became quicksilver. Dwalin had no idea how much of it had passed, but eventually Thorin started to stir. An arm or a leg would twitch every now and again, and Dwalin tried to knead the limbs gently, as movement slowly returned to them. Finally, Thorin’s head turned to his side, no graceful movement, but certainly a deliberate one. Dwalin bent closer to his face, a hand once again cradling Thorin’s cheek. Thorin’s eyes flickered open once more, and even though they were red and brimming with tears, Dwalin was so relieved to see that familiar glance once more. Thorin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, then he opened his mouth and after several futile attempts managed to choke out a single gruff syllable.   
“’wa...”  
“I’m here, Thorin,” Dwalin murmured so quietly that none of the others would be able to make out his words.   
Thorin dragged his right hand up and across his body. He ended up hitting his own nose, but sighed contentedly when he managed to drape his arm over his eyes, shielding them from the sun. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, as they were still watering profusely, and then started to flex his muscles for what Dwalin knew was going to happen. Sure enough, Thorin gritted his teeth and drew up his knees, laboriously manoeuvring himself into a kneeling position. He was shaking violently and it was evident that he could barely force his limbs into submission. He was breathing heavily for a while, even that small movement taking a toll on him. Dwalin was right there and for a moment, Thorin looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot, but full of grim determination. However, there was also something else, something Dwalin knew only he would get to see, a barely-concealed panic. Determination won out and Thorin made to get up much sooner than Dwalin would have liked. He supported him as much as possible, Thorin’s hands on his shoulders so he could slowly drag him up.   
For a moment, Thorin’s knees buckled, but his iron will somehow held him upright. Thorin swayed alarmingly and clutched Dwalin’s shoulder to steady himself. Dwalin moved to support him, but Thorin swatted his hand away. At least Dwalin was able to direct him to a nearby tree and Thorin leaned against it, trying to catch his breath. He had closed his eyes again.   
“We... ride on...” he finally ground out, his voice hoarse.   
If it had been anybody else, Dwalin would have told him to rest, but with Thorin he knew that was futile. Balin did not give in so easily.   
“I believe it would be better to remain here for a while, Thorin. You were unconscious...”  
“No.”   
Thorin’s voice was low and raspy, but it allowed for no argument. He looked around at his companions and although it was painful to even look at his sore eyes, his glance was as imperious as ever. He was leaning against a tree, barely able to hold himself upright, tears streaming into his beard and with that large wet patch clearly visible on his trousers, and yet he still looked every inch the son of Durin.  
There were mutters among the others, as they clearly did not agree that moving on so quickly was the right course of action, having just witnessed their leader’s death and resurrection, but they did not dare to contradict Thorin. Balin wanted to speak up again, but Dwalin gave him a little shake of the head, and for once his brother relented.   
“Quite right,” Balin said, and Dwalin had to admire his uncanny ability to adjust his reasoning with a moment’s notice. “We better not wait around for those ruffians to regroup. If we make good progress this afternoon, we should reach home tomorrow, and I for one wouldn’t say no to a nice warm bed and a tankard of ale. Bofur, put that arrow in my saddlebags and then go and refill the water skins, now there’s a good lad. Austri and Vestri, ready the ponies, if you would, please. And you two can help me take care of the dead.”  
Balin was as efficient as ever and soon everybody was going about their assigned tasks. Dwalin did not need to be told what to do, he stayed close to Thorin, who had closed his eyes again and looked like he might slip back into unconsciousness at any moment, pale and sweaty as he was.   
“Should I get you a change of clothes?” he asked quietly. Thorin’s eyes snapped open at that.   
“I can...” he hissed irritably, but then his voice broke and he left the rest of the talking to a gesture that might have been authoritative if his muscles had been fully under his command. I can take care of myself, Dwalin completed the sentence in his head. I cannot stand to be brought so low in front of my men and would rather pretend nothing has happened. He let Thorin be for the time being and turned to collect Thorin’s pony. He caught Bofur looking away quickly, his expressive face lined with concern.  
Thorin pushed him away when he tried to help him onto Emerald, insisting on laboriously climbing into the saddle on his own. The others had the good grace to avert their gaze. When Dwalin made to ride next to him, Thorin angrily hissed “Back!” so Dwalin took his place next to Bofur again. He knew he could trust Balin to be on his guard, but would have preferred to be as close to Thorin as possible.   
Thorin did not speak again until nightfall; his face was pale as limestone, and he rode hunched over his pony’s neck, eyes closed more often than not. At first they all rode in silence, but as the hours passed, conversations started up here and there, about the weather, about the ale in Dingwall, or other similarly mundane topics.  
It came as no surprise that Bofur broke his silence as soon as there was some chatter to be heard in front of them.   
“What you... what you did back there that was really... really brave and stuff...” he said, not nearly as cocksure as before.   
Dwalin smiled at him genially. “I merely did my duty.”  
“That was... that was more than duty, I think, because none of the others... and I mean they are all loyal to Thorin and all that, but none of them would have... and your brother he was all... he was proper worried and all, and then when he dragged you off and you just lay there and Thorin wasn’t breathing and... and I really thought you were both dead!” Bofur was speaking so quickly now that the words just seemed to tumble from his mouth.   
“I would not let it come to that,” Dwalin said. “He is my king.”  
“You really love him don’t you?”  
Dwalin smiled. Yes, indeed, that he did. “He is my brother,” he said.  
“Yeah because... you were like... like properly kissing him back there.”  
Dwalin almost laughed out loud. Sweet innocent child! Whenever Bofur got around to actually kissing a dwarf or a dwarrowdam, he sincerely hoped that he would learn to have somewhat higher expectations of a kiss.  
“Kissing Thorin is very different,” he said. “Just because you use your hands for something doesn’t mean you are fighting, and using your lips sure doesn’t make it kissing. Giving somebody breath like that is an important skill to have. I hope you paid attention to what you saw. You could save somebody’s life with that.”  
The young miner nodded eagerly. “You know, I’m really glad that you saved his life, but Thorin doesn’t seem so happy with you now. Just there when you... you know you just tried to be nice, and he’s all... and then when you wanted to help him onto his horse... he was really grumpy!”  
“Thorin has many burdens to carry. And after an injury like that, manners are the least of anybody’s concern.”  
“But he was really mean to you!” Bofur exclaimed, seeming truly upset about that.  
“Careful now,” Dwalin said, only half-earnest. He had heard many complaints about Thorin on his journeys, and was mostly amused by the young miner’s gripe. “That’s your king you’re speaking of.”  
“And I think he’s a really good king,” Bofur said, back-pedalling quickly as he suddenly became aware not just whom he was speaking of, but also who he was speaking to. “It’s not like I really know him, but my cousin said it was a real honour to be chosen to ride with him and now I’m here as well with you and I just... it was... the way you... gave him breath... that was very special, and I think anybody, like anyone who you’d serve like that, he must be a really good Dwarf and I’m very happy to serve him as well.”  
It became apparent that there were some limits to Bofur’s willingness to serve when he woke Dwalin in the early hours of the morning. When Thorin had finally called a halt by nightfall, he had pretty much collapsed where he stood and had been asleep before he could even unfold his bedroll. However, he had somehow managed to grind out the order of the watches for the night, assigning the last watch to Dwalin and himself. Austri was already snoring again when Bofur woke Dwalin.   
“I’m not that tired,” Bofur whispered. “I can keep watch with you till morning.”  
Thorin would most likely have both of their heads for that. “You need your sleep,” Dwalin said, stretching in the morning cold. “Let’s just go and wake Thorin.”  
The lad recoiled in poorly concealed horror. “I’ll just... my bedroll is just over there, I think I’ll... I’m really tired all of a sudden... need my sleep, as you said...” he stammered, then took a deep breath, said: “I’m sorry mate, you’re on your own here” and scarpered.  
Dwalin chuckled. He’d have to give Thorin a hard time for scaring the poor youngster with his grumpiness the previous day.   
When he bent down to shake Thorin awake, he hesitated. Thorin, who was a notoriously light sleeper, had not even stirred at his approach; he was sleeping like a rock. It was evident that he needed sleep after his ordeal with the poison. Then again... it had not merely been physical torment that Thorin had suffered.   
Reluctantly, he touched his friend’s shoulder. Despite trying to be gentle, he evidently startled him, for Thorin twitched and then began to cough. Dwalin patted his back, half expecting to be shoved away again, but Thorin actually seemed to relax under his touch. He sat up very slowly as if his muscles still pained him and wrapped the blankets Dwalin had spread over him the previous night closely around himself. When he looked up, his eyes were actually open and a half-smile played around his lips.   
“Hey,” Dwalin said.  
“Morning,” Thorin answered. While his voice still sounded raspy, the painful rawness had disappeared.   
“Breakfast?” Dwalin held out some bread and cheese he had kept aside in the evening and Thorin took them gratefully. He ate while Dwalin walked the perimeter of their camp, making sure all was safe as his companions slept. When he returned, Thorin was unwrapping himself from the blankets and held out a hand to him.  
“Can you...?”  
Of course Dwalin could. He helped his friend up and steadied him when he stood. Thorin winced as he gingerly stretched his arms.   
“I believe the arrow was poisoned.”  
“That would make sense,” said Thorin. “I...” He broke off, and Dwalin watched him bite his lower lip for a while before he visibly shook himself and continued, “I think it’s time for a bath... I reek.” He crinkled his nose and Dwalin chuckled.   
“At least your observational skills didn’t suffer.”  
The river was shallow here, flowing languidly between sandy shores. While Thorin waded into the cold water, Dwalin stoked the fire and opened Thorin’s saddlebags. It was a silent night, the only sounds to be heard the breeze in the trees, the murmur of the brook and the occasional cry of an owl. Dwalin listened closely to Thorin’s movements, ready to defend him should the Men or the muscle weakness return, but all went well. When Thorin stepped out of the water, Dwalin handed him a blanket to dry himself with and took his balled up trousers and breeches from him. He wrung them out and spread them over nearby bushes. They would not dry before they moved on, not with the morning dew that was starting to appear, but at least Thorin’s bags wouldn’t be flooded. In the meantime, Thorin had put on the fresh clothes Dwalin had laid out for him. He was sitting on a rock by the shore, tying his boots. Dwalin filled two mugs with steaming tea and added a generous amount of liquor from his hipflask before he sat down next to him. Thorin clutched his mug, but couldn’t hide that he was shivering. Dwarves might not be as sensitive as Men, but usually they did not bathe in rivers before sunrise, and certainly not in the autumn. Dwalin handed him several blankets and Thorin gladly accepted them. For a while they sat in silence, staring out into the darkness, observing the mist that was rising from the water. Dwalin waited.  
“Promise me you won’t do that again,” Thorin finally said. “Exhausting yourself like that for the sake of another when an attack might be imminent. Promise you won’t do that.”  
“I can’t do that,” Dwalin replied.   
“You made yourself vulnerable. I want my warriors to focus on their safety first and foremost.”  
“My duty is to serve those in need.”  
“So you would defy orders and do the same thing again.”  
“Aye.”  
Thorin made a noise between a huff and a laugh. “Stubborn mule.”  
“I learned from the best,” Dwalin responded.   
Thorin chuckled and then fell silent again.   
“All the others were right there,” Dwalin said.  
“Staring on in shock while you did all the work. Balin only stepped in to declare me dead.”  
“You are guessing now,” Dwalin replied. “For all you know it was Bofur who revived you.”  
“I was there.”  
“And out for the count!”  
Thorin swallowed heavily and his voice was rougher than before when he spoke again. “I was conscious the whole time.”  
Dwalin was taken aback. He turned to stare at Thorin in the dim light. His friend had not spoken in jest. “Mahal’s beard,” he cursed. “I didn’t realise.”  
“It was...” Thorin hesitated, evidently unsure of how to continue. He shuddered underneath the blankets and Dwalin had the sudden urge to put his arms around him. “It was strange. I did not feel faint, but suddenly I was on the ground and I... I could not breathe. I had my wits about me the whole time, but my body wouldn’t respond to me. My eyes... I could not even close my eyes...” He brushed his hand over his brow. “They hurt.”  
They were both experienced enough to know that hiding injuries only lead to trouble, but Thorin still wasn’t one to openly acknowledge pain that was unlikely to affect his companions.  
“I could hear my heartbeat, I could see you... but I couldn’t move... and I couldn’t breathe. My body was crying out for air, but I couldn’t breathe.”  
“I’m so sorry, Thorin.” Dwalin could only imagine Thorin’s horror. It had been bad enough to see his friend like this, but to actually feel your own life slipping away... to be so helpless... it was gruesome. He winced. Once again, they sat in silence, each caught in his own memories of the previous day.  
“Were you scared?” Thorin eventually asked.  
“Aye,” Dwalin admitted.  
“You weren’t even the one who was dying!”  
“Aye,” Dwalin said. “That’s what scared me.”  
He got up and walked the perimeter again. They were still on watch after all. He stoked the fire for good measure and listened to everybody’s snores for a while. Then he sat down next to Thorin again. Thorin spoke as soon as he had settled.  
“I was scared as well.”  
Dwalin was kicking pebbles with his boot.  
“I knew you were there and I... I knew you were scared... and you shouldn’t have to be,” Thorin continued. “Not on my account.”  
“Don’t worry about me.”  
“It’s not just that... I... I didn’t want to leave you. And I was thinking... you have a lot of time to think when you are not breathing... I was thinking about... about Dís, and about Fíli and Kíli...”  
“Me too,” Dwalin mumbled.  
“I don’t want them to have to go through that again.”  
Dwalin grasped his shoulder. “They won’t, not on my watch they won’t.”  
“Appreciate it, Dwalin. It’s been... it’s been hard on Dís, losing Jóli like that... She had finally... she was finally happy, and it was good to see her smile. It’s what I wanted for her, a husband who’d love her... one who wouldn’t go off to war and get himself killed, two boys who’d grow up with a loving mother and father. They are beautiful Dwalin, they really are. Kíli is... he’s a sun for us all... he’s like... like Frerin...”  
Dwalin let his hand rest on his friend’s shoulder. Thorin had not spoken about his brother much, not since that dreadful day. Azanulbizar had cast a great shadow upon him, but it was a shadow that was cast inward.   
“I can’t be Jóli... not to Dís and not to the boys... they deserve so much better... they deserve a father who loves them and jokes with them, not an old bachelor of an uncle who doesn’t know the first thing about children. But I’m what they’ve got now... and I guess... I guess better a grumpy uncle than nobody at all...” Thorin took a deep and somewhat shaky breath. “It’s not the life I knew in my youth... but it’s their life... and I want to make it as good as possible.”  
“And you will,” Dwalin said with conviction. “Let me have a look at your arm. Can’t give the laddies back a damaged Uncle Thorin!”  
The wound looked fine, as far as Dwalin could tell in this light. A very small and narrow slit marked the entry wound and the area was tender to the touch as could be expected. The exit wound was larger, also as expected. He retrieved some lotion and bandages from his bags and wrapped Thorin’s forearm tightly.   
“No wrestling matches for the next few days, but after that you should be up to lifting little dwarflings again.”  
He was unable to see Thorin’s face as they were too far away from the fire and the moon had hidden behind a cloud, but he could see him nod. It was cold, the time just before dawn when the night seemed to be at its darkest.   
“If it hadn’t been for you...” Thorin said.   
“Somebody else would have been in my place.”   
“Nobody would have done what you did... not for that long...”  
“Of course they would have.”  
“It was so long, Dwalin... there was no hope that I would make a recovery.”  
“Only a fool’s hope,” Dwalin said with a smile.  
“Or that of a loyal friend.”  
They sat in silence for a while, looking out towards the east where the first pale glimmer of light announced the beginning of a new day.  
“Once again I owe you my life,” Thorin continued eventually.   
“You don’t...” Dwalin started, but Thorin halted him with a raised hand.   
“I knew, even when I was lying there locked in my own body, the moment that I saw your face I knew that I would be all right,” Thorin said, his fingers twisting his braid nervously. “And that knowledge, that safety... that’s worth a lot, Dwalin.”  
Dwalin did not know what to say to that, so he left it to Thorin to continue.  
“Would you consider... staying closer to the Ered Luin for a while? I’d like to have you by my side.”  
Dwalin raised an eyebrow and smirked at his friend. “Do you mean to say the great Thorin Oakenshield needs a babysitter?  
“Maybe I do,” Thorin said. “My life is not as cheap as it once was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you interested in toxicology, Thorin was poisoned with curare. Nowadays used for anaesthesia, but originally a common arrow poison that paralyses the victim’s muscles. All muscles. So they do end up choking without artificial respiration. The onset is rapid and effects last for about 6-11 minutes. Doesn't sound very long, but when you are doing mouth-to-mouth that is quite a while, especially given the somewhat limited medical knowledge and capabilities in Middle Earth.   
> Thank you very much for reading; your continued support is very much appreciated. I’m writing these lines from a horribly overcrowded train, trying to get home for the weekend... Currently running about two hours late on a 4.5 hour journey. Good thing I can flee to Middle Earth! My next fic will take place the following spring and continue to focus on Dwalin and Thorin, but this time around I’ll throw Dís and her sons into the mix as well.


End file.
